It was nothing, really.
On that quiet Sunday morning, the sun was already warming the staircase that sweeps past Perugia’s 13th century aqueduct. It was seven o’clock, and I, being a morning person and too exhilarated to sleep much anyways, was out for a walk. Alone, of course, but I was happy to just be with my thoughts. Looking back, seven o’clock might not have been as benign an hour in an Italian university town (which goes to bed around two in the morning) as it is in, say, Grand Rapids, but I forget that not everyone likes to wake up at the same time I do.
Already, I was a little shaken, having discovered as I crossed a piazza some wet, brown smear on my hand. I didn’t know what it was or how it had gotten there—I hadn’t touched anything—and even though I assured myself that it was melted chocolate, I still felt inordinately dirty, so I was hurrying home to wash it off, not enjoying the view the staircase gives over the jumble of colorful houses. It was deserted except for one man slowly walking down, and I skittered past him, down the awkward half-steps. I thought nothing of my passing him until he moved behind me, out of my peripheral vision, which I didn’t like but told myself that he had the right to walk on whichever side of the staircase he wanted. Then, his footsteps skittered faster than mine. He grabbed my butt. It felt like he was reaching for something more. Out of nowhere came a howl, something wraith-like that belonged more on the moors of Wuthering Heights than in a sunny Italian street. Before I knew it, I had turned around and was holding onto his belt, trying to punch and claw his back as he scrambled away up the stairs. Afterwards, I wasn’t sure of whom I was more afraid—him who grabbed or me who reacted so unexpectedly, so loudly, so violently.
Since then, I’ve washed my hands many times. I’ve been relieved that this happened to me and not to my flat-mate who was younger, more delicate, and more jittery than I. I’ve told this story to my friends and family—for me, who leads a pretty quiet life, it was quite the traveler’s tale. I’ve laughed it off.
So, it was nothing, really. On a sunny morning, a man grabbed my butt, and we both ran away in opposite directions. End of a story that probably isn’t even worth the 391 words I’ve taken to tell it.
And yet, two months later, I’m realizing that this nothing is like a shadow that creeps up behind you, crosses your path, and wills you to whirl around, heart fluttering, only to come face to face with a well-dressed, pleasant-looking, university student who is only trying to cross the same street you are and who goes harmlessly on his way, oblivious to the panic he’s inspired. Unreasonably enough, it doesn’t matter whether this shadow belongs to a young man on a bicycle, a woman in high heels, or even a granny with a chocolate cake in a wicker basket: they all cause me to plan exit strategies, to brace myself for fight or flight. They also remind me that I’ve been considering investing in a small mirror that I can slip into my purse and that will allow me to discreetly discover who is behind me without making it too obvious that I am finding their presence worrisome. (My Dutch (and Chinese, too, probably) frugality and my temporary worker budget tell me I really don’t need one, and rationality warns that buying one will only feed my paranoia.)
Still, I maintain that it was nothing. It was nothing compared to the experience of millions who have been touched more wrongly, more violently. To you who walk alone and mirror-less, after having experienced more: I find you unimaginably brave.
Several nights ago I was walking back to my studio apartment around ten o’clock. In terms of returning home alone after dark, I’ve received a gamut of advice. Some people caution me to avoid the pedestrian bridge—the bridge closest to my apartment—altogether. Others have assured me that I can take it alone as long as I’m on a bicycle; cyclists are too fast for the guys who sometimes loiter on the island underneath to bother. So, I’ve made a habit of crossing the Loire River a bit further downstream, on the wide, well-lit stone bridge. That night, the stone bridge wasn’t quite deserted. There were couples strolling and sea gulls perching, and there was a young man in front of me who kept looking back. Maybe he was only trying to figure out where the obnoxious jingling of the zippers on my boots was coming from. Or maybe he wanted to catch the next tram and was trying to judge if he could make it to the stop in time. All I knew was that he could easily tackle me if he wanted to, so I kept my distance. I kept following even though I wanted to pass him and get home as quickly as possible. At the same time, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if we both terrified each other.
Sabrina Lee (’13) returned to the Calvin English Department in August 2023 as an assistant professor. She is currently finishing her dissertation and teaching “Ways of Reading,” the department’s introductory theory course.
